Drink Deep
by Beeblebabe
Summary: Part three of three tales of Seymour Guado, at different important moments in his life. Seymour is an adult, and has returned to Guadosalam, for a last meal with his father. Sequel to 'Your Will" and "Eyes Opened".


Guadosalam is not known for its cuisine.  This is because the pilgrims who come to visit the Farplane are not often interested in fine dining, and are more often than not actually fasting.  Those who do find themselves hungry and brave enough to try the local fare are often wary at what is presented on their plate; surely the Guado must know that you aren't supposed to eat /fungi/.... 

It is their loss, though, for the Guado take care and time with their cooking as with anything, cultivating a variety of mushrooms and hearty root vegetables that span the possibilities of flavor and texture and drawing from nearby Macalania and the Moonflow for herbs and flavorings to create unique dishes with an earthy appeal.   Of course, even if an outsider grows to appreciate Guado cuisine, he is not usually welcome long enough to get to enjoy even a fraction of it.  Guadosalam is for the Guado, and even the most enthusiastic gourmand would find it hard to stay in the earth where he was not fully welcome.

Guadosalam does not have much in the way of exports, but neither does any place in these trying times.  The elite of Bevelle and the merchant kings of Luca, however, do find a way to make a demand for Farplane wine.  The grapes are not grown in the Farplane; nothing grows in the Farplane, or at least nothing that a living person could harvest.  The wine gets its name because the casks are taken through the hazy barrier between the worlds and left in the Farplane to ferment.  Some say that they cannot taste any difference from regular wine at all, but those who swear by the product claim that there is an otherworldly touch in each swallow.  The more romantic and poetic connoiseurs will say that when you drink Farplane wine, you can taste your own mortality, and can touch the edge of death without fear.  The Guado, though, enjoy the wine simply for its taste, and not for any flavor of mortality, for the Guado live half of their lives already touching death.

*****

"I can barely remember the last time we dined alone together, father," Seymour remarked with a smile as they sat down at the table.  He remembered quite vividly, actually.  The last time was the night before he had left for Bevelle to begin training to become a priest of Yevon.  Jyscal had filled Seymour's glass full with wine for the first time and had told him that he was proud, very proud.

"Oh, I'm certain it can't have been that long ago, could it?"  Jyscal reached for the bottle of wine, but Seymour reached it first.  His father's hand was gnarled and rough, fingers reaching out from the palm like twisted branches; to look at his hand, outstretched across the table,  was to see the strength of the Guado spreading out beneath the hard skin.  Seymour's fingers were as smooth and straight as his mother's had been, although not nearly as small.  He took the neck of the dark-glassed bottle in his grip and filled his father's cup full to the brim, then his own to a much lesser extent.

"I'm fairly sure it hasn't been since I returned from Bevelle."  There was an extra quickness in Seymour's hands that Jyscal lacked.  He portioned steaming, sweet-smelling food from the chafing dishes on the table to his plate before his father could move his hand from where it had reached for the wine.  But, the Guado were always slow to act, preferring to move with measured caution, always afraid to move enough to shift their roots.  If you knew where to look, you could see what any Guado planned long before they set themselves to action.

"Ah, but you've been back for so long..."  His father reached for his glass and frowned, just a little.  His hazed, aging eyes focused on the surface of the wine, on the reflection of the moss-lights above cast into it.  Seymour drew his fingers around the goblet of his glass and momentarily imagined the wine burning through the metal of the glass and eating away his imperfect fingers to the bone.  He shook away the thought before a smile on his lips betrayed him.  His father still stared at the dark liquid, brows knit in thought.  "I'm... terribly sorry, Seymour."

Seymour met his father's eyes as the old man lifted his gaze.  The reflection of the lights in his fading eyes looked almost like pyreflies, and Seymour could not help but a small smile.  "Please, father, think not of it."  He held out his hands and smiled fully.  "Now, shall we pray so that we can begin this long-overdue meal together?"

Seymour did not see within his father's eyes a look of dawning recognition, or a sudden burst of realization, but rather the dim of acceptance long settled.  He drew his hands through the motions of the prayer with his eyes closed, and saw behind his eyes the ghost of his mother's smile, nearly fulfilled.   He finished the prayer and lifted his glass.

"Shall we drink, then, father?"  Seymour could feel the tremor in his voice, the tenseness of anticipation.  Jyscal lifted his own glass and drew it near his lips to inhale the fragrance of the alcohol without hesitation.  "To the future of Guadosalam."

"To Guadosalam," his father echoed, and drank deep.

*****

It is said that a Guado always knows when his death is near; the proximity of the Farplane has set it into the very air they breathe, into their blood.  The Guado do not fear death, for they have the constant reminder that what lies beyond is peace, if not an improvement upon life.  The Guado, however, do not attempt to sell this philosophy with 

the wine; for most, a mere taste of death is more than enough.


End file.
